


this northern bloom

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa wants Margaery, but Margaery only truly wants the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this northern bloom

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on this prompt from asoiafkinkmeme:  
> [Margaery x Sansa (with Cersei instructing) - How To Fuck Like A Queen](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/259929.html?thread=2092633#t2092633)
> 
> This started out as a one-shot, but I got pretty attached to their relationship, so there will be more!
> 
> [Set in the middle of A Storm of Swords, after the Tyrells have arrived at court for Margaery’s wedding to Joffrey. This is pretty canon-compliant, so don’t read later chapters if you don’t want ASOS spoilers! Chapter 1 is all good to go, though.]

Sansa wasn’t hungry.

She sat, trembling, at the Queen’s table, staring at her plate like some mute. She knew she was expected to be polite, smile, and speak when spoken to, but she couldn’t. As luxurious as the Queen’s private chambers were, Sansa found them more nerve-wracking than the darkest hallways of the Red Keep. At least out there, she wasn’t stuck in a room with Queen Cersei, unable to anticipate what the queen might want.

At her side, Margaery Tyrell laughed lightly at something the Queen had just said. The food on Margaery’s plate was daintily picked over, just enough to show a healthy appetite, yet little enough to be ladylike. It was a perfect display of manners from the woman about to become Joffrey’s queen.

Sansa had been at a loss earlier that day when she’d received the commands to dine this night in the Queen’s private chambers with the Queen Regent and Lady Margaery Tyrell, newly engaged to marry King Joffrey Baratheon. A scarce few weeks ago, Sansa herself had been Joffrey’s betrothed, her life a waking nightmare. When the engagement was broken, a pall had lifted from her for the first time since her father’s death. She’d thought she was finally free.

Yet weeks had passed and she remained, trapped here in King’s Landing. All she wanted was to leave, go home to Winterfell or wherever her brother Robb had his latest camp. With horror, Sansa had realized that Cersei Lannister meant to keep her as a ward of the crown. She wasn’t free after all-- she was just no longer to marry Joffrey. And who but the gods knew what the Queen Regent had planned for her now?

 

Trying to avoid the Queen Regent’s eye, Sansa carefully reached for her wine and drank, using both hands to steady the glass. She trembled all over, in fact, and could not stop. In some odd way, Sansa feared the Queen more now that the betrothal to Joffrey was broken. Before, at least, she knew what Cersei had in mind for her. Now, there was no indication. What was terrifying was that Cersei’s calm, scornful countenance never changed, so she was impossible to read. When Sansa had met Cersei at Winterfell a thousand years ago, when dead King Robert had come to make her father Hand, she had thought the Queen gentle and fair. Cersei remained beautiful, that was true. But behind that hard, lovely face was a woman whose love extended only to her own children. She had never shown a drop of kindness for Sansa, despite the abuse heaped upon Sansa by her own son, despite the visible bruises Joffrey’s men had left on Sansa’s body, despite the fact that Sansa was not so far in age from Cersei’s own daughter Myrcella…

Her head clouded up with unsolvable thoughts, Sansa’s hands shook so badly that she nearly upset her glass on the table. Immediately she chided herself, praying to the gods Cersei had not noticed, and quickly buried her hands in her lap. She must not think of such things in public, especially in the presence of the Queen. Cersei had never reprimanded Sansa with anything more than a sharp tongue, but Sansa knew that to lose composure in front of her would mean dark things indeed.

She suddenly felt a soft pressure at her hands in her lap. Stunned, Sansa looked down to see Margaery Tyrell’s left hand pressed over her own. Margaery was still turned away, engaged in conversation with the queen; only Sansa could see and feel this gesture. Margaery gave Sansa’s hand a quick, comforting squeeze that lingered a moment, before pulling her hand away.

Sansa exhaled softly, tension leaking out of her body. Margaery must have seen her trembling. Though Sansa had only known Margaery a matter of days, it was clear even yet that the Tyrell girl was perceptive, sharp, and capable of a poignant kindness that showed itself like shards of shimmering glass. Sansa hadn’t had a true friend since Jeyne Poole disappeared, but she thought she would like to know Margaery better. The girl and her family, though perfectly genteel to the rest of court, had been notably warm to Sansa.

But that was another thing that made Sansa scared. She wouldn’t wish Joffrey on anyone, especially not someone like Margaery. She’d even told Margaery and her grandmother Olenna Tyrell what Joffrey was really like--how he’d repeatedly ordered her to be beaten, that he’d killed her father--though she’d been terrified to yield the truth. Yet Margaery and her family were going forward with the wedding. Sansa couldn’t understand it.

“Little dove? You have the appetite of a bird this evening. Does my table not agree with you?” Cersei’s voice startled Sansa out of her thoughts. She instantly cursed herself for not forcing herself to eat, for not having the forethought to avoid this attention. “It--it does, your Grace.” Sansa swallowed, hard. “I am just feeling a little... indisposed. I will gladly partake, if it please your Grace.” She forced herself to meet Cersei’s eyes, hating the sound of her own quavering voice.

The Queen’s pale eyes regarded Sansa neutrally for a long moment. Finally she said, “No. We have dined long enough, I think. Let us retire to the balcony.”

Margaery Tyrell leaned in. “An excellent idea, your Grace.” Her cool, silky voice sounded like a caress; Sansa thought she could make even the most mundane phrases sound inviting with that tone. Cersei rose, her scarlet gown falling gracefully to the floor, and the girls trailed her into the next room, already aglow with the soft light of several candelabras and sconces.

Cersei’s bedroom was exquisite, draped in golden silks, a lush rug carpeting the hewn stone floor. Against one wall was a beautiful four-poster bed upholstered in embroidered cloth-of-gold, a huge tapestry in Lannister red and gold covering the wall behind it, opposite which was a short stone balcony. King’s Landing was beautiful tonight, balmy and warm, the sky alight with thousands of twinkling stars. The Queen’s balcony opened high out over the castle gardens, and the scent filled the room.

“Sit,” Cersei directed, gesturing at the low carved stools just inside the room. She moved to a table pushed up against the wall, took a decanter of wine and began to pour herself a glass. Sansa was surprised when Cersei pressed the glass into her hands. “Here, little dove. Perhaps this will cure what ails you.” Her tone was pointed but much softer than what Sansa had become accustomed to, from her. The Queen’s eyes were probing as she pulled away.

“Th-thank you, your Grace.” Gods, there had been a time when Sansa had prided herself on being well-spoken. She bowed her head and took a sip.

Margaery turned to the Queen. “The smell of the flowers is so divine, Your Grace. It reminds me of Highgarden.”

“King’s Landing is a city of many charms, Margaery.” Cersei continued with her page-like ministrations at the table. “What do you think, little dove?” she said abruptly to Sansa, who had just been thinking she’d be hard-pressed to name even one of the city’s charms. Sansa gaped at her until the queen, with the you-must-be-simple mixture of cosseting and scorn she always used with Sansa, said sharply, “The wine, girl.”

Oh. “It’s very good, Your Grace.” Sansa was being truthful. The wine was sweet, deep pink in color, and tasted of raspberries-- and, surprisingly, it was _good_. Perhaps that was why the queen was always in her cups. She drank again.

Cersei laughed. “So you prefer drink to food. A girl after my own heart.” She poured herself a glass.

Margaery cocked her head at this little exchange, like some sweet serpent. “King’s Landing is truly beautiful,” she said with a courtier’s smile, steering the conversation back to the earlier topic. “When you were wed, Your Grace, how long was it before you felt at home here?”

“It took very little time at all. I grew comfortable in King’s Landing very quickly. Of course, I had my brother Jaime here with me, serving in the Kingsguard.” Cersei paused for a moment, mouth quirked up in introspection, before turning back to her son’s betrothed. “But let us speak of your wedding, Margaery. If it please you, you may choose Joffrey’s bridal flower from the castle gardens.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Margaery said, sweetly. “Perhaps Sansa could aid in my decision.” Sansa murmured her obligatory assent, though the only flower she would choose for Joffrey would be deadly nightshade or the like.

Cersei sank into a low chair on the stone balcony, stretching in her seat. “Well. As Joffrey’s Queen, Margaery, you will have many duties to carry out for him. Namely, you must give him heirs.” Cersei’s elegant fingers tapped at the stem of her goblet. She regarded Margaery over the rim. “My Joffrey is young still, yet becoming a man. To give him heirs, _you_ must know what to do. What do you know of fucking?”

Sansa couldn’t hold back her sharp inhale of shock, the heat of her blush suffusing her body instantly. Next to her, Margaery sat very still, her eyes trained on the Queen.

“What do you mean, Your Grace?”

“I mean _fucking_.” Cersei could very well have been saying ‘dancing’, or ‘talking’ for the cavalier tone she was using, but there was the slightest hint of amusement-- enjoyment even--in her eyes. “What do you know of it, my lady of Highgarden?”

There was a pause. Margaery’s voice, when it came, was as light as Cersei’s, but steely underneath. “I am a maiden, Your Grace. To be any other, as the betrothed of King Joffrey--that would be... unthinkable.” _As well you know_ , her tone added.

Sansa’s face burned with mortification. What was the Queen saying? She glanced quickly at Margaery, who was gazing shrewdly at the Queen.

Cersei laughed suddenly, cheerfully. “Margaery, my sweet, I’m casting no aspersions on your _maidenhead_. Gods! I’m simply asking what you know of... well, of fucking. Lovemaking, if your tender sensibilities prefer. The art of how a queen may please her king. It is important that you know these things to make heirs. Joffrey may need you to be experienced.”

Margaery exhaled. The pause before her small smile clearly showed that her pleasantness was feigned. “I... see, your Grace.” Her feline eyes narrowed for a second before widening, innocently. “Why, I know as little as any maiden would.”

“So, you will need instruction.” Cersei leaned forward, her loose golden hair gleaming in the room’s candlelight. “Don’t be _ashamed_ , Margaery. I wouldn’t want my son marrying some _whore_.” She smiled, radiant. “This way, you will learn from me. I will teach you how to fuck like a queen.”

Sansa gaped at her, thunderstruck. She couldn’t help it. It was the combination of the obscene word she’d only ever heard used by stablehands (and Theon Greyjoy, once, when he didn’t know she was listening), and the frank discussion of what constituted heir-making. Sansa had never heard ladies speak of such things. But… who was she to know? Maybe this was part of the marriage contract. Maybe, if she were still betrothed to Joffrey, Cersei would be inquiring about _her_ lovemaking (fucking?) expertise right now. The thought was enough to set Sansa squirming with embarrassment, adding to the color already high in her cheeks.

Cersei reached to refill their goblets. Margaery sipped her wine measuredly, never taking her eyes off Cersei. Her expression was perfectly calm, the corners of her rosebud mouth turned up in a tiny smile.

Cersei drank, cleared her throat, and smirked. Her arch gaze swung from Margaery to Sansa, and back to Margaery. “So. _Fucking_ \-- or would you prefer if I said lovemaking?”

“Your word will suit,” said Margaery levelly. “Your Grace.”

The Queen smiled. “ _Fucking_ ,” she allowed, “should not be all about the _man’s_ pleasure. The woman’s pleasure is also important. If you are pleasing yourself... you have a much better chance of pleasing the man.” Cersei’s smile broadened, twisting slightly. “Men think they have all the control, but in the bedchamber... it’s all in our hands. All men fancy themselves great lovers, but… you know… they have such fragile egos. We can build them up or destroy them just by expressing displeasure with their performances. Plus, it’s up to _us_ to give them heirs. A man may spill his seed wherever he can stick his cock, but it takes a woman’s body, a woman’s choice, to bear a child.”

Margaery’s eyes sized up the Queen. “What are you saying, Your Grace?”

Cersei spoke deliberately. “Men control everything in this world. And so, in every other aspect of this world, we need them. But not in the bedchamber. There, _they need us_ \--to make heirs, to give them their pleasure. But we don’t need them. We can _use_ them for our own pleasure, but we don’t need them to achieve pleasure. Only once you know that can you truly fuck like a queen.” She looked at Margaery, almost coldly. “And don’t you want to be Queen?”

Margaery’s steely reserve was gone, the raw want palpable in her eyes. “I want to be Queen. I _do_ ,” she said fervently, gazing at Cersei. Her words were sharp with desire, touched with a note of pleading.

The Queen’s face hardened, and she leaned back in her chair as though it were a throne. “Then you’ll do as you’re told,” she replied. “Kiss Sansa.”

 

The room lurched. Sansa had thought the situation had changed, that she’d become a mere witness to this exchange between Margaery and Cersei, but clearly she’d been wrong. _Why this_ , she thought frantically, _what does Cersei want from me?_ It must be some kind of test. But why? To test her loyalty to the crown? To prove, as she did every day with her oaths and court appearances, that she was not the traitor to the crown her Stark name automatically implied? Was this the natural progression of her responsibilities as Cersei’s ward?

Her heart throbbing painfully, she glanced at Margaery. The Tyrell girl, whose mouth had fallen open slightly at the Queen’s order, read the fear written all over her face. Her eyes flashed. “My Queen,” Margaery said swiftly, “I don’t see what this has to do with the making of heirs.”

Cersei looked exasperated. “Kiss her, Margaery. A Queen should take what she wants, when she wants it.” Her tone changed abruptly, growing caustic. “And you _do_ want her, don’t you, Margaery? I’ve heard talk that the young flowers are lovely in Highgarden. Surely this northern bloom is just as fair. So go on.”

Sansa had never seen Margaery lose composure, but the Queen’s words caused the Tyrell girl’s mouth to tighten sharply. Margaery turned her face quickly away from Cersei’s gaze, as a high blush rose in her cheeks and a strange hesitancy washed over her face. Her gaze turned to Sansa.

As Margaery’s eyes traveled up slowly up Sansa’s body, tracing her figure in her ice blue gown, Sansa saw with surprise that Margaery’s eyes were growing black, pupils dilating with desire. The Queen was _right_ , she realized with a tiny, hot shock: Margaery _did_ want her. When Margaery’s eyes finally met her own, though, their look was pressing, questioning. Margaery was asking, Sansa understood suddenly, for her consent. She wanted to make sure this was all right.

But Sansa didn’t even know if her consent was hers to give. She turned quickly to look at the Queen and saw the hard, lustful look in Cersei’s eyes. Yet what the Queen was lusting for was impossible to tell. Sansa turned away. If this was a test, and Sansa had no doubt that it was, she had no idea what was expected of her. She had only ever kissed Joffrey, and chastely. What did the Queen want here? Was she to pleasure Margaery, or Margaery her? Was this a punishment or a reward? And again, what this had to do with heir-making was beyond her. It struck her that, just like everything Cersei Lannister had ever bidden her to do, this was beyond her comprehension. It was beyond Sansa to understand what went on in that Lannister mind. Unbidden, a laugh burbled up in her chest, and she let out a tiny, hysterical sound of mirth before she could stop herself, pressing a hand over her mouth.

The relief on Margaery’s face was immediate. She reached for Sansa’s hand and gave it a swift squeeze, and Sansa knew then that it would be all right. Just as Margaery had been kind to her before, so she would be now. Margaery pressed Sansa’s fingers to her lips, leaving a kiss there.

“What a _gentlemanly_ queen you are, Margaery.” Cersei’s acid voice caused Sansa to jerk in surprise, stomach instantly knotting with nerves, and she saw Margaery’s mouth tighten again, color rising in her cheeks. Wordlessly, Margaery brushed her hand over Sansa’s where she had left the kiss. She bowed her head, turned Sansa’s hand over, and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her eyes never left Sansa’s as she left a kiss on her wrist, another farther up her arm... and as she leaned closer, Sansa caught the faint scent of roses.

 _I don’t have to fear Cersei_ , Sansa told herself, as Margaery’s hand slipped lightly around her waist, _Margaery won’t let anything happen to me_ , as her grey eyes grew closer, fixed on Sansa’s. As Margaery’s soft lips pressed gently against her own, the warmth of it made the world go black.

Margaery pulled back for a moment, looking intently into Sansa’s eyes when she blinked them open. Sansa hadn’t realized she’d closed them. She wanted only to feel Margaery’s lips again, to smell the rose scent of her hair. So she squeezed Margaery’s hand and smiled, tremulously, hardly daring to nod _yes_ , but that was all it took for Margaery to smile and exhale and kiss her again.

She’d never felt anything like this, the warmth flooding her body all over, not just where she and Margaery met lips. It spread, tingling, through her belly and ignited the strangest warmth in the secret place between her legs. She only knew that she needed _more_ , stealing her hands around Margaery’s waist to pull the other girl closer, bodies pressed tightly together, knees pushed close beneath their skirts. She let go of Margaery’s hand and slipped her right hand up into Margaery’s loose brown hair, tangling her fingers in the soft curls.

At this new feeling her mouth opened in a sweet sigh of delicious need, and suddenly the kiss was wet and hot, Margaery’s tongue in her mouth. The girl’s hands drew under Sansa’s chin then, stroking up and down the curve of her jaw, gently angling her head. Sansa wrapped both arms around Margaery’s waist, because all she wanted was to get _closer, be_ closer. The throbbing between her legs grew and she squirmed against Margaery, mouth falling open even more under the older girl’s kiss. Margaery gently pulled Sansa’s lower lip between her teeth before kissing her again, and again, and again, so fevered and hot that Sansa wanted to scream.

She realized she was panting and gasping into Margaery’s mouth, her low desperate sounds only partially swallowed up by their open-mouthed kisses. She wanted _more_ , the queer ache between her legs spreading and tingling and all of a sudden they had kicked away their stools and were on the floor. She was on her back, Margaery awkwardly straddling her hips, their skirts everywhere. Margaery sat up for a minute and gave a little laugh and hitched up the skirt of her own green gown so that she could sit astride one of Sansa’s legs, her left knee dangerously close to the aching juncture of Sansa’s thighs. From her position on the floor, Sansa admired Margaery. She was so lovely, Sansa realized suddenly, her heart-shaped face flushed and set in a look of determination. How often had she daydreamed of going to bed with some handsome knight? But warm, beautiful, soft Margaery, whose hand now crept under her skirt... somehow, she was better than any knight Sansa could ever have imagined.

Margaery carelessly pushed up the full skirt of Sansa’s gown and leaned down to meet Sansa’s lips. Sansa sighed in wordless pleasure at their kiss, amused at her own greediness for something she’d never known she wanted. But Margaery’s heated mouth was gone all too soon, and Sansa gave a sharp gasp of protest until a split second later she felt the other girl pressing a kiss to her throat, and another, and another. She arched her back in delight as the kisses grew wet and gasped at the perception of teeth and pressure, as she felt Margaery sucking little bites into her skin. A flock of butterflies exploded in her stomach, fluttering madly, as the bites moved over her collarbone and then—suddenly—Margaery was kissing the tops of her breasts, pushed up over the tight bodice of her gown and all Sansa could think was _Yes, this is what I wanted_ , and she was pushing her crotch against Margaery’s leg because she was aching so badly, so sweetly, and it was almost too much.

“Yes... _yes_ ,” she panted, stroking Margaery’s soft head, watching Margaery’s deft fingers work at the fastenings of her gown. The Tyrell girl looked up at her and smiled, and when she had gotten the bindings loose enough Sansa herself wrenched open her bodice. Margaery paused then, regarding Sansa with her feline grey eyes. Sansa stared back, chest heaving, trembling. Without breaking their mutual gaze, Margaery took Sansa’s right hand, entwining fingers, stretching Sansa’s arm high above her head on the lush carpeted floor. The fingers of her other hand drew a lazy circle on Sansa’s breast, drawing down the top of her silk shift with agonizing slowness until Sansa’s right breast was exposed to the balmy night air. Painfully slowly, Margaery ran her thumb over Sansa’s nipple, and it hardened immediately to her touch. Margaery smiled and smirked sweetly at Sansa, whose desperate sighs were only increasing in volume as she rolled her thumb over the tell-tale spot. “Harder--” she whispered, “harder--”

The sudden hard pinch at her nipple hurt, yes, but the bolt of sweet pleasure that shot through Sansa arched her spine and drew a wail of delight from her throat. Margaery pinched down hard, so hard that Sansa squirmed in sweet agony but when Margaery bowed her head and the pinch was replaced with the ferocious wet bite of Margaery’s tongue and teeth Sansa began to thrash uncontrollably. Her world narrowed into a golden bubble, arching her neck, rolling her hips against Margaery’s leg between her thighs. She was barely conscious of the sounds she was making as Margaery suckled and nipped at her, but it was truly the best thing she had ever felt. Margaery pulled her silk shift down to get at her other breast, pinching at that with her hand as well.

And suddenly she felt, between her legs, Margaery’s hand, stroking at the place that only Sansa had ever touched. Instantly she felt herself becoming wet, and it was into this secret silky hot wet place that Margaery slid one exploratory finger. Sansa tensed instinctively, expecting pain, but there was none. She felt her inner walls tighten around Margaery, who lifted her mouth from Sansa’s breast to groan. She leaned up, fast, and kissed Sansa’s open mouth, whispering hotly, “You sweet, sweet girl, you are so young, you--”

Sansa wrapped her hands in Margaery’s hair and pulled her head fiercely to her. She may have only just learned to kiss, but she knew what she wanted, and delighted in hearing Margaery groan as she ventured her own tongue into her mouth. Then too soon Margaery drew back, nudged her nose against Sansa’s own and kissed a burning path down Sansa’s neck, chest, moving over the tangle of unlaced corset and skirts at her waist. She pushed up Sansa’s skirts and laced her fingers with Sansa’s. And when Sansa felt Margaery kiss her there, between her legs, she screamed.

In blind, frantic pleasure, she rolled her hips helplessly up into the irresistible sweetness that was Margaery’s mouth on her. With her eyes closed, the whole world was Margaery’s lapping tongue at her aching center, finger crooked wickedly inside Sansa. Margaery added another finger and Sansa pulled her closer, fingers twining in brown curls, hips undulating against the wet strokes of motion, again and again and again and…

Margaery’s thumb stroked the front of her and Sansa’s back arched; wordlessly she cried out and collapsed against the floor, shuddering, spent. Margaery drew away for a moment before lowering her head to lick Sansa clean with a few long strokes of her tongue, leaving a few well-placed kisses that reduced Sansa to trembling shudders. Not releasing Sansa’s hand, Margaery drew herself up, supporting herself on one elbow, and kissed Sansa, hard. Her lovely curls were messy in disarray, but her eyes shone. Not thinking, Sansa opened her mouth and it was a moment before she realized, with perverse amusement, that she tasted herself on Margaery’s tongue. She rolled onto her side and clasped Margaery’s head between her hands and they kissed for a long minute. Finally she was too exhausted to continue and rolled onto her back. Margaery, still on her side, laid her head between Sansa’s head and shoulder and her arm across Sansa’s waist, gently pinning her to the ground. They rested, breathing heavily.

 

There was a small sound of clapping. Sansa had forgotten completely about the Queen. She opened her eyes and stared at Cersei, still seated in her chair on the balcony. Too exhausted for fear or even nerves, she stayed where she was, partially naked, clothes in disarray. Margaery was there to keep her safe, her arm around Sansa, and besides, Sansa thought, after what Cersei had just seen, there was no way she could claim dissatisfaction.

“Well _done_ , my young Queen-to-be,” Cersei cooed approvingly. Margaery slowly sat up, smoothing her dress. “And how was that?”

“It was... well, Your Grace,” murmured Margaery, so demure now, but her rapid self-composure couldn’t hide the fact she was still breathless from their coupling. Sansa hastily pulled her shift up over her breasts, and her dress down over herself. She felt positively indecent as she sat up, trying to right herself. Margaery looked at her quickly and a little smile caught at her mouth, though she tried to hide her amusement from the Queen as she leaned to help Sansa lace up her gown. “It was very well.”

“Yes, I see that,” Cersei said baldly. “Of course, it _is_ different with a man. And remember… though I have taught you how to fuck like a queen, I said nothing about fucking like a king. It’s one thing to give pleasure to a king when he wants it,” she drained her glass, “and quite another to do anything but just lie there when all he wants is a cunt to fuck, and cares not if it’s wet or dry or even attached to his own queen.” She dropped her glass to the ground. The sound of its shattering seemed to please her. “So you see, Margaery, it’s not all fun and games and our sweet Sansa here.”

The bitterness in the queen’s voice was heavy and caustic. Sansa stared at the queen’s face. She’d never looked so old.

“Your Grace,” Margaery said, her head bowed.

“That’s enough from you, you little slut.” Though cruel, Cersei’s words sounded hollow. She gazed off across the balcony, drawn into herself. “Sansa, fetch me another glass.”

Sansa scrambled to her feet and did as she was bid. The queen accepted it without looking at her. Sansa stepped back to stand alongside Margaery, waiting patiently for the queen’s dismissal.

Cersei sighed finally, glaring at them. “Well, you may go. I hope you’ve both learned something tonight.” She turned away and settled darkly into her chair, hands locked around her goblet, lost in her own thoughts.

Margaery dropped a graceful curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa did the same. As they turned away, Margaery caught Sansa’s eye with a naughty, jubilant smile. Sansa felt her heart skip with excitement, and she instinctively put her hand out to take Margaery’s. They left the Queen alone behind them.

And as they departed the Queen’s chambers, Sansa realized in shock that the night’s events had proven to be the first real kindness Cersei Lannister had ever shown her.


	2. Author's Note

I finally ended up revising and expanding _this northern bloom_ into a much longer, chaptered fic, which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/805491). They're two very different works, which is why I decided to leave this intact and move in a slightly different direction with the newer piece.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We court our own Captivity / than Thrones more great and innocent;](https://archiveofourown.org/works/805491) by [heart_nouveau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau)




End file.
